


Edge

by morganoconner



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Episode Tag, First Kiss, M/M, Shaving, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil can't seem to stop his hands from shaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Princess_Aleera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Aleera/gifts).



> This is a tag to episode 1.11 - The Magical Place. As such, there are some spoilers regarding Coulson's frame of mind at the end of that episode. There are _no_ spoilers for the events of the episode (or the show itself, really).
> 
> Many thanks to puchuupoet for looking this over for me!

_Things like this don't happen to me,_ Phil thinks, staring at his hand in disgust. It's shaking. Both of his hands have been shaking for three days now, along with the tremors that wrack the rest of his body at odd intervals.

 _Things like this don't happen to me,_ he thinks again, but it's a useless thought, because while perhaps things like this didn't happen to the man he used to be, there's no telling what the man he is now is prone to.

The man he is now is broken in ways the man he was never had been.

Phil swallows, closing his eyes against the images he can't unsee, the phantom pain he can't unfeel. His hands clench around the edges of the sink, and he forces his breathing as even as he can manage.

There's a knock on the bathroom door, which doesn't make him jump only because he's been expecting it. He was due to meet Clint downstairs half an hour ago.

"Come in," he sighs.

Clint does come in, looking wary, like he still doesn't believe this isn't all some elaborate prank. "Sir?" he says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Everything all right?"

Phil grunts out something that's meant to be a 'yes' but comes out like a strangled, bitter laugh. "I was going to shave," he explains. "Because we're going out for lunch." He stares in the mirror at the scruff that's had three days to grow in and make him look messy and unkempt. "But I can't."

Clint's brows furrow. "You can't…?" he presses and, bless his soul, he doesn't say anything beyond that, doesn't comment on Phil's frame of mind or the circles under his eyes or the way Phil's voice sounds hoarse from too many times he's woken up screaming.

"I can't," Phil says, and holds out his still-shaking hands for demonstration. "Unless I want to slit my throat."

He doesn't want that. He won't even think about it. Wishing for death is one thing, but wishing to kill oneself is entirely another, and thank God, he hasn't sunk that low yet.

Frowning, Clint steps closer, reaching out to take Phil's hands in his own, and for a moment, the sudden warmth seems to ease the awful trembling.

"You're the steadiest guy I know, sir," Clint says quietly.

"I used to be," Phil replies, because it's true.

"Still are." Clint doesn't wait for him to argue. He unclasps his hands from Phil's, places them on his shoulders, and guides him to sit on the toilet seat. "Anyway, what are friends for if not to help with crap like this?" He aims a quick grin at Phil that Phil notices doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just like in Kuwait, when I broke my hand in three places and you had to help me with every damn thing until we got out."

"I seem to remember you doing pretty well all on your own," Phil tells him, remembering. There hadn't been any shaving then. He's pretty sure he'd remember that. Besides, Clint doesn't mind scruff the way he does.

"Nah, I just put up a good front. You even had to tie my boots, 'cause I was being stubborn about it and kept tripping over the laces." Clint is rinsing off Phil's straight razor as he speaks, and filling a cup with warm water from the tap. He grabs the shaving cream off the shelf and kneels in front of Phil. "So this is gonna be okay and not weird, because you know you'd do the same for me. Deal?"

Phil swallows. "All right," he says. "Deal." Something in his stomach, in his chest, suddenly feels as jittery and out of control as his hands.

For long moments after that, Clint doesn't speak. He fills his hand with the shaving cream and begins slowly, methodically spreading it over Phil's jaw. His touch is gentle, almost unbearably so, and his eyes are filled with a strange look Phil doesn't want to decipher, so he closes his own eyes to block them out.

The first scrap of the razor almost doesn't register, somehow, but the sound of it being rinsed in the cup does. And then Clint is speaking again. "I remember in Kuwait, I thought my hand was gonna be fucked up for the rest of my life. Thought I was never gonna shoot again. It was terrifying."

"I never would have let that happen," Phil says. There's another soft scrape against his jaw.

"I know." Clint's hand is steady as he works, his fingers warm when he touches Phil's face to turn him this way and that, guiding the razor with the same dexterity he uses to guide his bow. "Might not mean as much, but I'm not gonna let it happen to you, either. You're going to be okay, Phil."

Phil can count on one hand the number of times Clint has used his given name. It makes something prickle behind his eyes, something else lodge in his throat. "How can you know that?" he demands, opening his eyes just as Clint tilts his chin up so he can slide the razor over his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple.

It occurs to him, then, that he would never trust another person with this. Clint has a deadly weapon to his throat, could kill him before either of them could blink. He could do that normally anyway if he really wanted, but somehow, like this, it’s different. Phil doesn't trust easily, and he's never let anyone this close before. Even Helen, bless her, had known that he distanced himself from her with some things.

Clint has a razor to his throat, and Phil's hands, for the first time in three days, aren't trembling.

"I know," Clint answers, "because you're Philip J. Coulson, ex-army ranger, top level agent of SHIELD, and all around badass. I know because you're the guy who saved me, saved Nat, saved damn near every single one of us at one time or another. And I know because I know _you_ , and even if you don't feel like it right now, you don't know how not to be the strongest, and the best, of all of us." His eyes glint in the too-bright lights of the small bathroom, blue and green and hazel, a prism of absolute conviction in every word he's speaking.

"Clint…"

"You trust me?" Clint demands.

At some point, the hand holding Phil's straight-edge razor fell to his thigh, resting there as Clint spoke. Now, Phil takes the hand, razor and all, bringing it back up to his throat and holding it there. His eyes close and he takes a shuddering breath. "I trust you," he says.

Clint straightens up on his knees, his other hand sliding around Phil's neck and into his hair, bending him forward so their foreheads are resting together. "Then believe me," he says, voice cracking. "You're going to be okay. Whatever they did to you…you'll be okay."

They stay like that for several moments that can't possibly be as long as they feel, a surely strange tableau if anyone were to happen upon them. But they're alone, in their own little bubble here, and Phil isn't quite ready to pull away yet.

"You feel a little steadier," Clint murmurs. The hand still holding the razor is drawn away for just long enough to drop it into the cup of water by his side, and then he's reaching back up to curl it back around Phil's, this time pressing them against his chest, above his heart, close to where…

"Just don't go anywhere for a while," Phil says. He tries to make it sound like a joke, but his voice comes out pleading, making him flush.

Clint just tightens his grip. "Not going anywhere for as long as you need me."

"I don't think I can stay here that long. Eventually, May will get it into her head to just leave without me." Phil doesn't say that maybe she should. Maybe his team would be better off without him for a while.

"Guess I'll just have to tag along on the Bus for a bit," Clint says, decisively enough that Phil can almost believe he means it.

"Barton, come on, you can't –"

"Shut up," Clint cuts in, shaking his head. "Just…shut up and stop worrying and let me take care of you for a while because I thought you were dead and I still haven't totally gotten over it yet, okay?" He stares at Phil with his heart in his eyes, a lingering sorrow that hasn't quite managed to be dispelled still lining his face. Then his lips quirk, just a little. "Guess I should finish this job before we start talking about others, anyway."

Before Phil can question what he means, he stands up and rinses a washcloth in the sink. Kneeling before Phil again, he carefully rubs away the remaining bits of white foam, not taking his eyes from Phil's as his touch lingers, warm skin and soft cotton and something sparking there that Phil doesn't know how to name.

His heart gives a painful lurch in his chest seconds before Phil is leaning forward, cupping Clint's face in his hand (still steady, somehow, a miracle in a day for miracles) and brushing their mouths together in a soft, nearly too-hesitant kiss.

It's not passionate, not the way most people would think of the word, not frantic or needy or desperate. It's comforting, and trusting. It's deep the way oceans are deep, and timeless because that's what they want it to be. They hold each other close and breathe each other's air and Phil thinks, he's maybe not okay, not all the way, not yet.

But for the first time, he also thinks Clint is right.

He will be.


End file.
